The Bourne Nemesis
by enigma939
Summary: Post-Ultimatum. Noah Vosen enlists the aid of a lethal killer who styles himself after Carlos the Jackal in order to seek vengeance against the people responsible for his downfall: Nicky Parsons, Pamela Landy and Jason Bourne.
1. Prologue: Blackbriar's Vengeance

**The Bourne Nemesis**

**A/N: **This is the first among many of my ideas for post-Ultimatum Bourne fanfics. A few elements have been borrowed from the novels by Robert Ludlum.

Jason Bourne, and all related characters are the properties of Universal Studios and Robert Ludlum's estate.

**Prologue: Blackbriar's Vengeance**

Noah Vosen paced up and down his cheap rented apartment in the middle of Washington DC. His brow was wet with the sweat of frustration, of anxiety and above all of rage. Rage seethed through every fiber of his being; it literally inhabited whatever was left of his soul after a lifetime of planning and executing clandestine operations of the darkest nature. Rage was all that kept him alive even in these most hopeless of situations.

_Vengeance_, which was all that was left for him now. His personal vengeance as well as vengeance for the now lost cause of Blackbriar.

_Blackbriar_. The word echoed through his head like the name of a long-lost brother whom he desperately wanted to save but had failed to do so. He remembered that day, nearly three years ago now, all too well, when he had initially been approached by his old friend, Director of Operations Ward Abbott to lead Operation Blackbriar, which was ostensibly a new and improved surveillance and communications program but was in reality the umbrella program for all of the CIA's black ops, chief among which was the assassination program formerly known as Treadstone. Vosen had for years committed himself to the ideal of doing 'whatever was necessary' in order to save American lives and safeguard American freedom. However he felt disillusioned with his Intelligence work owing to the constant scrutiny and restrictions imposed by Oversight Committees and Ethics panels, which he felt hindered his mission. Therefore, he jumped at the chance of being able to control an entire network of operatives stationed across the globe who were capable of carrying out the 'blackest of black operations' as he'd phrased it. And that was precisely what he had done. He had presided over rendition, interrogations, infiltrations and above all assassinations…he never regretted his actions for a moment and neither did he let any of his subordinates and agents do the same. He had been the ruler of his small private and invisible kingdom.

But it was all over now. The grand dream of saving American lives was finished, ground into dust by idealists and misguided soldiers. And he, Noah Vosen, the man who was responsible for saving America from the mercy of terrorists and other aggressive foreign powers for years was now himself at the mercy of the Oversight Committees and the Senate. He who had dedicated his life to eliminating threats to his nation had been branded his nation's biggest threat. And the Blackbriar program itself, which had covertly worked to uphold American glory had been demonized into a 'national shame'.

Fortunately for him, he still had a few friends in high places who were willing to help him in a limited capacity as long as they did not compromise their own positions. So, within three weeks of his arrest, he had been let out on temporary bail. His bank accounts had been frozen and his penthouse apartment had been impounded but he still had just about enough money to rent out this cheap apartment for the few days his bail was likely to last. He had enough time here to think, plan and plot his revenge.

For revenge was all that kept him alive, that kept him breathing…it was all he had left of his life, his career, everything he'd spent years working for which had been torn apart in a matter of days. And it all came down to three people, three particularly tiresome people whom he would like nothing better to strangle to death the moment he saw them…Pamela Landy, Nicky Parsons and Jason Bourne. Above all, Jason Bourne. For he was the one who'd started the damn mess. Vosen had had the pleasure of shooting Bourne in the back and watching him plunge into the cold depths of the East River but he had no illusions. Bourne's body had not been found which meant that he was very much alive. After all, he'd survived worse before.

Which was why, he was now in a position to exact the ultimate vengeance against his trio of enemies. For the first time since the fall of Blackbriar he had a clear plan of action; one which could in no way lead back to him. Not that it mattered much if it did; he certainly couldn't be in worse trouble than he was now. The Blackbriar networks had been dismantled and the assets had been taken into custody, debriefed and were currently undergoing rehabilitation and were therefore out of his reach. But there was still one man who would suit his purpose; someone not explicitly associated with the program but one who had had past 'dealings' with certain elements in the Agency. Vosen was one of the few among the CIA top brass who was even aware of his existence and who had access to him. And today, he was going to make arrangements to have the man contacted and briefed. Before the week was out, _all _his enemies would be in their graves; some humiliated beyond their worst nightmares. Because his man was good, no one was better than him. Not even Jason Bourne.

Vosen dialed a number he'd long ago memorized on the new cellphone he'd purchased. The phone rang thrice before it was picked up and a casual business-like voice answered, "This is the Freemason Corporation, London, how may I help you?" came the crisp voice with a tinge of a British accent.

Vosen took a deep breath and began, "Mr. Johnson. This is Wilson. Nate Wilson from the Combined Insurance Association".

"Ah, Mr. Wilson", the man known by the pseudonym 'Mr. Johnson', "It has been a long time since I've heard from you and your company going. How are things?"

"To tell you the truth, they're not really good. It's why I need the assistance of your Corporation", replied Vosen cautiously.

"I take it that you require our 'special services', Mr. Wilson", said Johnson.

"Yes please. Discretion is off the utmost importance now", replied Vosen.

He waited five seconds until there was a slight humming sound in the line which indicated the activation of scramblers. Then the voice of Johnson spoke, though it was a lot tenser voice, "Instructions?" he asked.

Vosen took a deep breath. _Here we go_. "I need you to activate the Jackal".

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other line. "The Jackal himself?"

Vosen sighed, "Yes dammit. This will be his last assignment, from our side that is. The price will be astronomical since there are three targets and the methods of termination are to be somewhat…elaborate. I'll arrange to have money transferred to your account. Give him what he wants; in fact, give him _more_ than what he wants. Let him be happy. This is one job he _has _to do well."

"Who are the targets?" came the voice of Johnson on the other line.

"CIA Deputy Director Pamela Landy, former CIA coordinator Nicky Parsons and rogue CIA operative Jason Bourne. You'll find all the details in the files", said Vosen.

Mr. Johnson whistled. "Three internal targets. You're sure doing a lot of housecleaning these days".

"Don't you read the papers? Blackbriar's gone south. I've been fried. So this is my last bit of housecleaning. Now listen closely to these instructions", Vosen then proceeded to summarize his intentions to Mr. Johnson. Ten minutes later, he had finished.

"Fine. I'll contact him. I think it will take at least three million though. Possibly four", said Mr. Johnson.

"You'll be having _six _by tomorrow. So don't fret. Just get the job done", said Vosen as he disconnected the call.

Vosen discarded of his phone's SIM and replaced it with a new one he'd purchased recently. He then made a call to a contact working in one of the many overseas banks where he'd maintained a secret account, consisting of funds siphoned off gradually over the years from the budgets of various CIA operations, chiefly Blackbriar and its immediate predecessor Treadstone. He made several such calls, each time with a different SIM. Fifteen minutes later, he had made arrangements for an excess of six million dollars to be transported secretly from various locations to two separate bank accounts in London, where they could be accessed by a Mr. Stan Johnson and a Mr. Phillip Collins respectively, both being aliases used by Mr. Johnson, who was in reality Claude Armstrong, an Anglo-American former Marine with whom Vosen had been carrying out below-the-table dealings for years. Eighteen months ago, Vosen had 'formalized' his professional relationship with Armstrong to a certain extent by establishing him as one of the many undercover Blackbriar agents in London. However, Armstrong's primary responsibility was operating the links between Vosen and certain 'undesirable elements' whose aid the CIA executive occasionally required from time to time, chief among them being the highly efficient and lethal assassin-for-hire known by many pseudonyms, chief among them being the 'Jackal'. Vosen had only used the Jackal twice before, though some of his colleagues and predecessors, especially Ward Abbott, had used him several times before for years. Vosen however knew enough about the assassin to know that he was a consummate professional who took pride in his professional pursuits and regarded each assignment as a challenge to his reputation. He was a man twice as skilled and thrice as ruthless as Jason Bourne had ever been, even during his days with the Agency, and therefore Vosen was confident that Bourne did not stand a chance against this new lethal nemesis.

Yes, Vosen though, as he stared at his reflection in the glass of his apartment's window and noted the calm expression on his face which concealed an unparalleled ruthlessness. Things had been set into motion. And before long, his revenge would be complete.


	2. Chapter 1: Enter the Jackal

**The Bourne Nemesis**

**Chapter 1: Enter the Jackal**

_Munich, Germany_

The dark, grey and foggy city of Munich served as the rendezvous point between Claude Armstrong alias 'Mr. Johnson' and the enigmatic and ruthless killer known by many names, his preferred one being that of a legendary assassin of a generation past: Carlos, the Jackal.

Normally, Armstrong would send a subsidiary to meet the assassin. If there was anything he'd learnt in his years as an underground clandestine 'facilitator' it was that such men as Carlos were to be kept at arm's length. However, ever since the collapse of Blackbriar three weeks ago, Armstrong had suddenly found himself a bit short-staffed and under-funded. Sure, Vosen had been true to his word and had transferred an excess of six million US dollars to his London bank accounts, but even then, Armstrong felt that Vosen would have preferred if all the funds were placed at the disposal of the Jackal rather than wasting the money paying conduits. Besides, Armstrong felt that this was one important assignment he'd rather supervise himself.

The message he'd left with the assassin's conduit in the outskirts of Munich had undoubtedly reached the killer, for he noticed a tall, lean man dressed in a dark tan trench-coat with a hat pulled over his face, obscuring his features, walk up to his private booth at the seedy café and settle himself into the leather seat opposite his.

Armstrong cleared his throat. "Senor Chacal", he began, addressing the assassin by the name the latter preferred using at such sudden interviews, "I have a most important assignment for you from your old client, Mr. Vosen in the United States".

The killer remained silent for a few moments before he signaled for a waiter and ordered a cup of hot coffee, speaking in perfect German, albeit with a tinge of a Spanish accent.

"Indeed", the assassin, Carlos, replied in his deep cold voice. "I must confess the assignments of Mr. Vosen and his colleagues have been most interesting till this point. And undeniably most lucrative", he paused before adding, "I hope this continues to be the case".

"Certainly it _is_ the case, Senor Chacal", replied Armstrong, feeling again the strange nervousness and subtle fear that invaded his mind and body whenever he spoke to the assassin. The man before him was clearly an incarnate of terror; he would stake his life on that. And yet he was subtle, like death from spider venom.

"Let me be the judge of that", the assassin replied sharply. Then his voice softened, "Please proceed with your briefing".

"Uh, right", replied Armstrong. "The assignment involves the termination of three subjects, all of them US citizens formerly or currently associated with the Central Intelligence Agency".

"This sounds simple enough. Far too simple. And therefore, unworthy of my attention", Carlos replied sharply.

"No wait", Armstrong protested. "That's only the beginning. Two of the subjects are on the run, outside the United States, beyond the radars of any Intelligence agency. And one among these two is a particularly dangerous man. A trained and conditioned killer. A former black ops agent employed by the Agency who went rogue three years ago. All attempts to capture or eliminate him thus far have failed completely."

These words piqued the Jackal's attention. "Who is this man?" he asked, a hint of curiosity entering his voice.

"He is known by many names…" began Armstrong, pausing for an effect, "…the preferred one being _Jason Bourne_."

For a few moments, the two men remained silent. Carlos's coffee arrived, and he drank from the steaming mug in small sips. Finally the assassin spoke, "The name is familiar to me."

"Of course it is. The man's been on the run for years. His escapades have caused collateral damage in close to a dozen countries. He's wanted by the Interpol and the police forces of several nations, not to mention several intelligence agencies, US and others. He was an operative; part of a program called 'Treadstone'. You've heard of it, of course?" asked Armstrong.

"I have", the assassin replied softly. In reality, he knew close to everything about Treadstone, though he would certainly never admit it to a mere conduit like Armstrong.

"Then you'll also know that the Treadstone operatives were put through a behavior modification procedure as part of their training. This procedure, while on the surface highly effective, certainly had its flaws, for Bourne snapped while on a mission. Some say he suffers from memory loss. Others say he has simply developed homicidal tendencies of a more dangerous sort. Nevertheless, he is a dangerous and highly unstable man, a liability to the US Government and the CIA in particular. Which is why he needs to be eliminated", explained Armstrong.

The Jackal was silent for a few more moments before he spoke, "Tell me about the other two targets?"

Armstrong sighed. "The other one on the run is Nicky Parsons, a CIA logistics coordinator formerly associated with the Treadstone project, who is now believed to be an accomplice of Bourne's. She was believed to be dead in Tangier close to a month ago, but evidence has since shown that this is clearly not the case. In all likelihood, she has rejoined Bourne in hiding".

"The third target", continued Armstrong "is Pamela Landy, a CIA Deputy Director currently stationed in Washington DC. She isn't on the run and highly visible, though she is also heavily guarded. Now there are some specific instructions related to the termination of _this _target". And Armstrong proceeded to narrate the instructions Vosen had specified.

Carlos patiently listened to the instructions before he spoke, "I shall accept the assignment. However, with regards to the fees…", he paused, "…as there are three targets, and specific instructions attached to the assignment as well which may require additional efforts, I must demand a total fee of five million American dollars".

"Agreed. But since this is a most important assignment, Mr. Vosen has empowered me to pay you upto six million dollars for the assignment", said Armstrong.

"Mr. Vosen is a generous man", the assassin replied softly. "Very well, then. Three million in advance, to be deposited in my account in Swiss francs by tomorrow evening", Carlos said, as he scribbled out the details of a bank account in Geneva on a small piece of paper with a pencil, "and three million on completion of the assignment".

"You do understand of course, that in view of the high fees, and the _importance _of this assignment, Mr. Vosen is anxious that any progress be periodically accounted for and…", Armstrong began, but Carlos simply cut him off by saying, "Give me a secure phone number. I shall try to report every 48 hours, except in cases of dire emergency".

"Agreed", replied Armstrong, as he scribbled down a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to the Jackal.

"Then I believe our business here is concluded", Carlos said, rising from his seat.

"Wait", protested Armstrong, as he reached for his small briefcase which he'd placed on his seat beside them. "I have some information in a file here, on Jason Bourne…" he began, but the Jackal cut him off again, "And I have many far-reaching sources of information myself, Senor Johnson. So I have no need for your dossier", at which point, he left a small bundle of 'marks' (German currency) on the table and walked out of the café.

Armstrong sighed. The encounter with the Jackal had certainly left a chill down his spine. But it was over. The operation was in motion. Soon, Vosen's plans would come to fruition. Soon Blackbriar would be avenged.


	3. Chapter 2: Prelude to an Assassination

**The Bourne Nemesis**

**Chapter 2: Prelude to an Assassination**

_Lyons, France_

The assassin known as Carlos displayed his identification and thus gained access to the restricted archives of the Interpol headquarters. In a matter of a few hours he had been through Bourne's primary Interpol file as well as excerpts from files from the National Central Bureau's of various countries, including France, Italy, Germany, Russia, Britain, Spain and Morocco. His conclusion upon skimming through all the material on Bourne was this: That Jason Bourne was undeniably a dangerous man, impossible to capture and even more impossible to kill. That wherever he went, there were gunshots, explosions, injuries and corpses. Always corpses. These traits of his soon-to-be-target particularly piqued Carlos's interest. Here was a target worthy of his attention, a man who couldn't simply be killed with a straight bullet to the head or a defective brake-line. This man was a hunter, a predator roaming in the vast jungle of the world. A man like him could not be slain in direct confrontation, he would have to be subtly led into the middle of a web of conspiracy and deceit, poked and prodded by adverse circumstance in order to be entrapped and ensnared completely in the ultimate defeat: death.

After years of reigning in the shadow world of assassination, Carlos had honed the precise skills that would enable him to spin such a web powerful enough to ensnare even the most formidable of opponents. He had studied human behavior; he understood triggers. He knew exactly what strands of circumstance would provoke what reaction in a particular individual, and he knew that such reactions were predictable and repeatable. The same principle would clearly apply to the one-time assassin known as Jason Bourne.

Three days ago, the Jackal had been in London, collaborating with contacts of his in Scotland Yard and MI5. He had soon gained access to all the confidential data that had been amassed by the late journalist, Simon Ross, with regards to Jason Bourne and the Treadstone project in general. He now had a fair idea of Bourne's operational history. From a professional perspective, he approved of Bourne's methods entirely. Invisibility, harsh efficiency and absolute swiftness. The result would be widespread chaos and confusion with suspicion always resting on a unknown third party; the real assassin himself being a hidden factor, a non-existent phantom. Yes, thought Carlos, Ward Abbott and his colleagues had certainly borrowed a lot of leaves from _his _book.

The information on Nicky Parsons in the Interpol files was scant. Apart from a brief mention of her as being Bourne's accomplice during his activities in Tangier the previous month, there was nothing more of note. However, some of the Treadstone material Carlos had bought from a contact of his in the CIA had provided some more valuable information. Parsons had been Bourne's local contact in Paris; apart from handling logistical operations and monitoring the mental health of the agents. This, coupled with Nicky's subsequent 'defection' from the CIA by aiding Bourne in Tangier, proved to Carlos that there was clearly more depth to Bourne and Parson's relationship than the Agency had previously known. And this was something he was certain he could use to his advantage when the time and the conditions were right.

According to the files, Bourne had returned to Europe and had literally gone on a rampage against the CIA after his girlfriend and accomplice; Marie Helena Kreutz had been murdered in India by an assassin whom he believed was a CIA operative. The pressures violence suddenly re-intruding on his life and the loss of someone close to him had been enough to trigger an extremely violent and agitated response. Carlos was certain that the same trigger, applied after a comparatively short period of time, would be sufficient to elicit an even more violent and uncontrolled reform. In short, if another person close to him were to die, Bourne would be driven half-insane…

Carlos's mind delved on those violent tracks even as he contemplated the information on CIA Deputy Director, Pamela Landy, who, as Mr. Johnson had rightly said, was the most 'highly visible' target. He did not really need to read any file on Landy to know she was an idealist who valued ethics and accountability even in the darkest of clandestine work; the news reports related to the Blackbriar scandal were sufficient. Landy had already made herself a fair number of enemies in the American intelligence community with her no-nonsense attitude and ethical sense; she had almost certainly doubled that number since exposing the Blackbriar program. Noah Vosen was one of those enemies, and Carlos was to be his instrument of vengeance…for a price, naturally. _So be it_, thought the Jackal. The fact remained that there were enough vultures circling Landy to pick on the slightest hint of misdemeanor or treachery on her part. And misdemeanor and treachery Carlos would provide...to suit his purpose.

The fall of his two closest allies amidst invented circumstances that would surely prove hostile to him, would be enough to drive Bourne into the web that would ensnare him and slowly choke him to death. The predator would become the prey and the prey would perish. It was a reversal Carlos positively took glee in. It was why he did what he did.

The only question that remained was a matter of location. Nicky Parsons he had chosen as the match that would light the spark for the 'fireworks display' he had set up, but he still needed to find her, and ensure that Bourne was with her when he chose to act. For in the plan that he had hastily constructed in the dark corridors of his mind, every piece of the puzzle needed to be in position for the time he would strike!

_Paris_, it occurred to him suddenly. Jason Bourne and Nicky Parsons had both, years ago, been stationed in Paris. That was where Nicky, a woman unaccustomed to being on the run, would head, owing to her familiarity with the city, if only to get her bearings, to re-anchor herself to reality after the chaos of the past few weeks. And if Carlos could deduce Nicky's location, Bourne easily would as well. And, having no where else to go, he would go to Nicky. Even if Bourne was an amnesiac, the fact that he had been to Paris even after he went rogue proved that the city was still familiar to him, which provided him with an added incentive to go to ground there. Especially since the Agency was not that likely to be looking for him.

Carlos's thoughts paused for a moment as he stole another glance at the photograph of Jason Bourne he had found in one of the files. Though he had heard a great deal about Bourne in the past, he had never actually seen a clear picture of the man before. And the moment he set his eyes on the face of his soon-to-be-target, recognition came crashing home to him and in the crevices of his mind, several pieces fell into place…the hunt for Bourne had ceased to remain solely a professional matter for him, for now that he knew who Jason Bourne was, there was a personal stake involved. Nevertheless, Carlos was a strict and rigorous professional…any personal involvement would be kept at harms length. His pragmatic mind would consider Bourne as merely a high-paying assignment and nothing more…he would complete the assignment and collect his reward; the personal satisfaction would merely be an added bonus.

Nevertheless, regardless of the motive, one fact had firmly implanted itself in his mind. _Paris_. Tonight, he would be on a flight to Paris. And then…the hunt would begin…


	4. Chapter 3: Return to Paris

**The Bourne Nemesis**

**Chapter 3: Return to Paris**

'_You came to us…you said you wanted to serve…you'd do whatever it takes to save American lives', the disembodied voice echoed inside his head, distorting reality, corrupting his essence, destroying his very being._

'_I was killing…for you…for _them_', he shouted back at the source of the voice with every shred of energy he could summon. He didn't want to do this…but there was no way out… 'Let go of David Webb…from now on you'll be known as…_Jason Bourne_…welcome to the program…'_

"Goddamn it, no. I can't do this anymore. Its over. I'm no longer Jason Bourne", he cried out in his sleep and then suddenly sat up in his bed. In an instant, the bedclothes were thrown of, a gun was in his hand, and he was scouring every inch of the room like a vary predator, his senses scanning every aspect of his immediate environment for a potential threat…a threat to be neutralized…_eliminated_. Like they'd trained him to do.

Five minutes later, the man who was once David Webb returned to his bed and sat down, the gun clattering to the floor and his head falling in his hands. He had ascertained to his satisfaction that there was no presence in this room, no threat to be overcome; the presence had been in his head, in his _mind_. He was alone here…alone with his thoughts…

He looked up into the wall of his hotel room, into the pale wallpaper that covered most of the wall. He stared away into nothingness, concentrating on everything and nothing. And yet, in his mind's eye, the visions returned, swiftly followed by the voices. Visions of torture, of disorientation…a feeling of panic, of claustrophobia, of being broken down bit by bit until there was nothing of the man left, except the perfect machine…the perfect weapon…

It seemed to him now a miracle that he had been able to recover even the dregs of his humanity on that boat in Marseilles years ago by refusing to execute Nykwama Wombosi. For he remembered now, how the humanity had been systematically broken down and conditioned out of him, in a brutal procedure designed by the sick mind of Dr. Albert Hirsch. He had been trained to become the perfect soldier, a man who would carry out orders and execute targets without asking a single question. A man who wouldn't let anything stand in his way on the path to his objectives…to his targets. He had become Jason Bourne, a dark force of nature unto himself…and as much as he wanted to deny the fact, he still was…

For even after he'd strayed out of _their _control he had remained an unstoppable weapon, this time acting towards his own objectives and targets. His first objective being to avenge Marie; his second objective being to learn the dark secrets of his past. He had let nothing stand in his way; least of all _them_. And he had ultimately discovered the truth…and since then the truth continued to haunt him day by day, night after night…in his dreams, his nightmares and occasionally, much to his shock, even during his waking hours.

Ever since his 'swim' in the East River, and his subsequent hurried escape from New York City, and eventually, the United States altogether, the memories of his time in the 'Special Research Department' under the supervision of Albert Hirsch dominated his subconscious mind. No sooner did he close his eyes than a few minutes later; he would find himself back in that sterile white-tiled room, a gun in hand, with a man in a black hood, a nameless, faceless, defenseless target, bound to a chair opposite him. He never gave in the first time, nor the second, not even the third, but then, each and every time he refused, the hood would be pulled down over his head and the sensation of drowning, of plunging into hostile and enclosed depths returned to him again and again until he decided to give in. He would stand up and pump three bullets into the chest of his target without the slightest hint of hesitation. And Hirsch would welcome him into the program…again and again…

Had he known that finding the answers meant reliving the trauma repeatedly and relentlessly, never being able to enjoy a true moment of peace, then he wouldn't have spent so much time and energy finding the answers. And yet the answers were in a way, all that was left for him; after Marie was gone, the search for his unremembered past was all that remained for him.

And now what? He had found out who he was and where he came from; he now knew his real name, though after so many years, it felt alien to him. The men responsible were exposed and would be brought to justice. Pamela Landy would see to that. So where did that leave him? Was he destined to continue running, forever haunted by fragments of a forgotten life? Would his memory ever completely return and more to the point, knowing what he did now about his past, did he _want _it to return? Could he possibly go back to the life he'd once led as David Webb a long time ago? Would he want to? After all, how different had David Webb's life been from that of Jason Bourne's anyway? Probably not as sinful, but not necessarily blameless.

He sighed and at that moment realized that sweat was dripping down from his forehead onto his face. He heaved himself of the bed, made his way to the bathroom, drenched a hand-towel in water and wiped his face with it. For a few moments as he stared at the mirror, his mind went back in time, to the not so distant past, in India, where on a night much like this one, on a shack in the beach, he'd suddenly woken up after a nightmarish memory returned to him, and Marie had helped comfort him. But Marie was gone now…her head had been blown out the very next day by an assassin sent to kill him…He had avenged her death, but her loss still resonated in him…

He went back into the room and tried to think, to remember what Marie would have wanted him to do in a situation like this had she still been alive. Well, for starters, she'd have told him to get rid of the gun. Marie hated guns, though she understood why Jason needed to carry them; both his and her safety depended upon it. And yet, she insisted that he never kept guns hidden on the bed, which was why, as a minor concession, he kept one in a drawer under the bedside table.

He reached for the gun now, where he'd dropped it on the floor, and broke it down instantly, in the manner he'd studied a lifetime ago. Then he sat down on the bed again and thought about what else Marie would have told him to do.

_The notebook_, he remembered suddenly. Marie would have wanted him to write down whatever he remembered in his distorted nightmares in the notebook, which he did, as much to please her, as he did to make sense of his fragmented memories which haunted him night after night.

He reached for the topmost drawer on a desk opposite the bed and pulled out the notebook. It was identical to the other one, also kept in the same drawer, in which he used to write in when he was in Marie. Though he still carried it in her memory, he never wrote in it anymore, as it reminded him far too much of her…so he'd purchased a new one, in which he wrote down everything he could recall about his ordeal at SRD in New York during his induction into Treadstone. In addition to short paragraphs graphically detailing the insidious 'behavior modification' procedure, the notebook also consisted of photographs of Albert Hirsch and Neal Daniels, which he'd plucked from newspaper archives, as well as pictures of the SRD facility on East 71st Street, and the few pictures of its interiors, including the waterboarding tanks, that had been leaked out to the media.

He never really understood why he did it; why he spent long hours meticulously writing down every detail of what had become a living nightmare for him…a nightmare from a another life…a past long forgotten…perhaps it was the feeling, the secure feeling of being anchored to reality, however dark and torturous that reality was. Perhaps it was because he felt that by acknowledging the nightmares as reality, as part of a past that was dead and buried, the nightmares would no longer haunt him incessantly. But on the contrary, all it did was augment the effect the nightmarish memories were having on him…

For a few minutes he wrote furiously and feverishly into the notebook, until he realized that he could write no longer…his hands were shaking, he was unable to grip the pen properly…and even as he wrote, words and images echoed in the faraway recesses of his mind…_ 'When we're finished with you you'll no longer be David Webb…' 'I'll be whoever you need me to be sir' 'Will you give yourself up to this program?' _And then there was the echo of gunshots and the vision of a bound and defenseless man in a black hood slumping down on his chair…dead!

No! The man who had been both David Webb, dedicated soldier who'd abandoned morality in the name of service, and Jason Bourne, skilled and ruthless assassin, stood up abruptly from the desk, letting the pen drop to the floor. He simply couldn't go on like this! He couldn't continue to immerse himself relentlessly in this nightmare any longer in the hope that it would end this way…it was senseless…_insane_…But then again, he might have laughed bitterly at this if he had felt his mood was even slightly lighter than it currently was, owing to the fact that if nothing else, his life since he had woken up on a fishing boat in the Mediterranean Sea with no knowledge of who or what he was had been insane!

He looked around the small room and suddenly the claustrophobic feeling returned again. The room, with his clothes messily thrown about, the pieces of the dismantled gun scattered on the bed, and the notebook with its grim images and contents lying open on the desk suddenly felt as nauseating as the memory of the black hood pulled over his face…he needed to get out! Yes, that was it, he needed a walk, a jog if possible…during the long months in hiding with Marie, he had learnt that exertion, massive physical exertion, could help him free his mind temporarily of its tensions, brought on by the painful return of violent memories…

So he got dressed, locked the door to the room and sneaked his way downstairs, past a dozing night-clerk into the dark night-time street of the 'City of Light'. He spent some time walking down the alleyways, enjoying the cool night air, letting his thoughts lose focus, his mind run free…

While strolling, his thoughts gradually turned to the subject of Paris…and why he had come here. Once he'd fled the States, he had no idea where exactly to go. Since Marie's death, his life had once more been ruled by objectives, and he went wherever the fulfillment of those objectives demanded he travel…But now, with no real objectives in mind, he felt unfocused, unmoored…he supposed he had Treadstone to blame for that…they had trained him well, too well, that the man had disappeared and the predator, the weapon, the machine was all that remained…a machine who dealt with cold calculations and acted solely on objectives and instincts, never on desires or actual needs…

But then, vaguely, a place came to mind…Paris! Though he barely had any actual memories of his time here, he instinctively felt that he had ties to the place, that he was deeply connected to it in some strange, inexplicable way…at a time when he had no idea who he was, save for the fact that he had several aliases and a large amount of money, it was Paris he had chosen to travel to, because he truly felt that answers could be found in that city. And he had found answers, unpleasant ones, but answers nevertheless that gave him at least a vague idea of who he had been…

And now, years later, he found himself in a similar position to the one he'd been in when he first traveled to the city; though he had learnt more about his past, he still had no idea who he really was. And so, the idea of revisiting a place that he knew had been a vital part of his unknown past instantly appealed to him.

And then, he had realized another reason why he wanted to return to Paris. The reason had been so obvious had he not, perhaps deliberately, been denying it to himself. Nicky! Despite his own firm advice to her to not go anyplace familiar where she could easily be tracked, he was sure that someone like Nicky, who had never been a field operative and was completely unused to the idea of being on the run, would visit Paris, a place she'd once lived in, if only to get her bearings and root herself firmly to her new reality…Yes, Nicky might easily have come to Paris…and since it did not seem likely, given the present scenario, that the Agency would be taking great efforts to find her, occupied as it was with its own internal problems, it followed that she would have found it safe to remain here indefinitely…and thus the hunter that was Jason Bourne had found himself a new objective…to find Nicky Parsons…and to question her!

For Nicky was a connection, a link to his forgotten past, perhaps not as important a link as Conklin, Daniels or Hirsch had been but a link nevertheless…and she alone held a vital piece of the puzzle that was his past. How often had he pondered about the meaning of those words she had spoken that night at that café on the outskirts of Madrid…? _'It was…difficult for me…With _you_…you really don't remember _anything_'._

No goddamn it, I _don't _remember anything! All I remember is the violence, and the killing and the…faces…faces in darkness, faces of dying men, faces without names…I don't know what the hell you meant and earlier I wouldn't have cared, but since I have nothing better to do now, I may as well find out…

None of these thoughts had occurred to him then, there was too much in motion, too much on his mind already. So he had stared impassively at her and replied briefly, curtly, 'No'. But now, he realized that he _had _to know the truth, if at all humanly possible. And it _was_ humanly possible. For Nicky Parsons _was _in Paris. He had confirmed that after discreet enquires at the Immigration offices of the Orly Airport. A certain Rachel Parkinson had entered the city over a fortnight ago; Rachel Parkinson being the name on the false British passport he'd hurriedly obtained for her in Tangier. Unless Nicky had obtained a new passport since she'd come to Paris and had left the country under a new name, which was unlikely, she was still in the city, lying low and living as normal a life as could be expected given the circumstances.

And, he had to admit to himself, it wasn't merely his desire for answers but his concern for her which motivated him to find her. In the heat of his actions, he had not paused even for a moment to consider anything outside of his immediate objectives; however, ever since New York, he had felt a growing sense of guilt within himself over her current predicament. She had abandoned her career, her safety and put her life on the line for him. This despite the fact that he had held her at gunpoint twice and had even brutally manhandled her on one occasion. He owed it to her to at least ascertain if she was safe. Which he would. He knew that eventuality better than he knew himself. For the predator called Jason Bourne always succeeded in his objectives…whatever they were…


End file.
